


and now, my darling, i can't stand to sleep alone

by vulpesvortex



Category: Havemercy Series - Jaida Jones & Danielle Bennett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-14
Updated: 2011-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-26 01:52:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulpesvortex/pseuds/vulpesvortex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three drabbles about waking up. That's about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and now, my darling, i can't stand to sleep alone

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Sleep Alone_ by Bat For Lashes.

When Royston opens his eyes, bleary in the sharp morning light, a familiar sight greets him.

"Honestly, Hal," he mutters, starting to laugh, and bites Hal’s big toe lightly. Hal’s feet in his face are the first thing he sees most mornings, regardless of what position they went to sleep in the night before. It’s really quite a miracle.

They’re practically friends by now, Hal’s large, bony feet and he.

"Mmmph," comes from the foot of the bed, followed by a muffled "’m sorry, ‘m sorry," when the boy realizes he is once more facing the wrong side of the bed. Royston can’t help but laugh, ducking out of the way of Hal’s kicking feet as he begins to right himself.

Hal’s strange sleeping quirks didn’t come to light until two weeks after Royston returned from Xi’an, when Hal was no longer too exhausted to move, but this is pretty much how it’s been since then. The first morning like this had, admittedly, been somewhat of a surprise. He must move gradually in his sleep, because Royston can’t imagine how else he manages to turn himself about in their shared bed quite so thoroughly without waking him.

It should probably annoy him, he thinks.

Truth is, he wouldn’t trade the moment Hal emerges topside from under the covers - blushing, shy and sleep-rumpled - for anything.

"Good morning," he says, pushes Hal’s too-long hair away from his forehead and cards his fingers through the strands when Hal comes up for a kiss.

 

(caius/alcibiades)

Alcibiades wakes up with a weight across his chest, and a familiar voice in his ear.

"You know, for a military man, I had expected your reflexes to be more...volatile." Caius murmurs, pleased and leering and with no regard for Alcibiades’ personal space. No change there, then.

"Get off, you little twerp," Alcibiades growls, because Bastion, how does this shit even happen? He’s pretty sure it’s Greylace’s fault, anyhow. He’s pretty sure that between the wine and the gin and the food and the _oh dear I seem to have dropped my ridiculously expensive hairpin will you please be a dear_ he can’t be held accountable for his actions. He’s pretty sure he would be entirely justified in shoving him off.

It’s just that, really, he’s quite comfortable. Caius isn’t too heavy, all bones and angles because it would _never_ do to ruin his _figure_ , and he’s warm, stretched out along the length of him. One dainty, long-fingered hand is rubbing at his chest, sending lazy ripples of pleasure along his ribs and neck.

"Now, now, is that any way to speak to your lover?" Caius says gleefully, flicking a finger over a nipple with an expression not unlike a boy salting slugs just to see what will happen. And bastion-fuck, the bastard’s really cracked his bell if he thinks that’s what this is, except then he can feel Caius at the edge of his mind, dropping off a memory on the front porch neat as you please.

Thin white legs cradling his hips, a wet-hot mouth at his neck. A set of delicate fingers at his jaw, a thumb rubbing at cheekbones, softer than expected. And somewhere in the treacherous depths of his mind, a thought. The memory’s not as drunk-hazy as he expects; he can’t help but flinch.

"Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy it, I saw that face." Caius curls himself over him, nipping at his collarbones.

"Fuck you," Alcibiades groans, and rolls them over roughly, pressing the other man into the sheets. Beneath him, Caius’ smile is all teeth.

 

(thom/rook)

Thom wakes up on the floor, because that is just his life. It’s cold and hard and it’s possible there are splinters in his shoulder blades, but he is too exhausted right now to pay attention to that. His muscles protest when he struggles into a sitting position, pain shooting down his back to settle at the bottom of his spine, throbbing lightly.

He’s grateful, in a way, to find Rook sprawled across the bed, limbs dangling off the edge, even if he’ll be paying for the pleasure every time he’ll try to move today. Rook’s still here after last night, which is more than Thom had dared to hope for on some occasions (nights where his knuckles bruise and his words cut and there is so much _anger_ ), and his hand hangs limply in the air above the floorboards Thom’s face had been using as a pillow.

He won’t let himself think about that. It doesn’t count if Rook’s sleeping. It doesn’t mean anything if he’s not conscious. Then again, it can’t be a ploy either, unless Thom were to believe Rook is actually capable of manipulating him while asleep (some days, he does).

It’s better not to think about it.

Thom pulls on a pair of pants from the discarded pile on the floor and, god, there can’t be wood splinters in his ass. There just can’t.

Somehow he ended up here, this unimaginable, inescapable place where his muscles ache and he’s in bed with his brother (metaphorically, at least) and there’s a set of bruised-red handprints on his hips, and these are all good things.

In a little while, he will go downstairs to get breakfast, and Rook will spit curses at the plate Thom brings for him, will tell him he’s a pathetic excuse for a Mollyrat and bastion, he should’ve left Thom in one of the million bar fights that tend to spring up wherever they lodge (or dine, or drink, or even just pop inside for directions. Between Rook’s temper and Thom’s ability to put his foot in his mouth regardless of the company, they are like a social tinderbox.)

Thom will just raise an eyebrow, still too twitchy around Rook to roll his eyes, and pretend not to notice the gaze that lingers on his bruises, the smug quirk of his brother’s lips as they eat together on the bed.


End file.
